It is not my memory, so I cannot actually recall the sounds of that night. In the sleepless hours before morning when it is quiet enough to imagine these sounds, they come to me like whispers on fog.

I did not hear the shuffling of footsteps behind her at midnight as she walked home.  She had wisely chosen to walk through a safe, sleepy neighborhood of older houses with tidy front porches—porches with American flags which rippled gently, and window boxes filled with red geraniums.  Surely she was safe in the company of these silent sentries.  Or was she? Her pace quickened as she crossed to the other side of the street.

I did not hear the little hitch in her breath the moment she realized that the footfalls had also crossed over and were behind her once again.  I did not hear her own footsteps hastening to match the wild beating of her heart.  I did not hear the flagpole being torn from its place on a porch, or the sound of the flag being ripped away from its pole and trampled underfoot.

I did not hear the voices behind her, leering and cursing, or the pivot of her shoes on the pavement as she half-turned toward them to catch a glimpse.  I did not hear the whizzing sound of the pole as it cut through the air or the crack of her skull as it split open in the silence of the night.

I did not hear the scuffling sounds as her bag was ripped from her shoulder, or the relentless thuds of the pole as it smashed down upon her legs, her back, her head.  I did not hear her cry out as she scrambled on all fours to the supposed safety of a sentry porch.  I did not hear the frantic banging of her fists upon the front door where the newly-awakened occupants huddled silently together within.

I did not hear the small ragged groan which pushed its way from her throat as warm, sticky red oozed through her hair and past her ear, then spread itself across her shoulder and down her back.

I did not hear the clatter of the flagpole as it was thrown aside, or the scratchy gravel footfalls of cowards retreating toward darkness.  I did not hear her rise to her feet, shocked at first, then angered.  I did not hear her initial tears or the curse words that followed, or her own dazed footsteps on the pavement as she ran–not away from her attackers, but toward them.  I did not hear her strong interior voice—the one that refused to let this happen without a fight, the voice that fueled her inner resolve to catch up to these men and wrestle her purse from their grip.

What I did hear was incongruous jangling from the telephone next to my bed, and the sound of my own heart beating in feral panic at a deep-sleep hour when the news is never good.

What I did hear was a quivery-chinned voice trying not to cry.

“Mommy? I’m at the hospital. Can you come get me?”

(Note:  My youngest daughter was mugged almost twenty years ago.  After being beaten and robbed, she picked up the flagpole used to beat  her and ran after her assailants to try to get her belongings back.  Once she realized she was hurt, she gave up the chase.  She lost her brand-new camera, her purse, and all its contents.  We both lost a sense of security.

The assailants were caught almost a year after the attack, due to the dogged diligence of the local police force.  We both went to the sentencing.  The prosecutor spoke on our behalf with great passion and eloquence;  the judge handed down the maximum sentence.  I often wonder if those two men have changed their ways.  Do they have jobs and families of their own?   Are they living on the straight and narrow? One can only hope.

My daughter is a strong young woman and I am proud of her.  Weeks after the attack, she resumed walking the dog at night even though the sound of leaves rustling behind her had the ability to put her heart into overdrive. She believed that changing her habits out of fear meant that her attackers won.

They may not have won, but then there are still those wicked headaches.  And there’s that little thing she does when walking together:  she doesn’t allow anyone to walk behind her, even if she knows them.  Twenty years later, and she still steps aside and lets them pass.)